


Favorite Hiding Place

by sardonicsmiley



Category: Battlestar Galactica (2003)
Genre: Episode: e0923, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-10-27
Updated: 2005-10-27
Packaged: 2021-01-04 05:00:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21191972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sardonicsmiley/pseuds/sardonicsmiley
Summary: BGSharon finds her favorite hiding place in the least expected place. Postep for 923...





	Favorite Hiding Place

**Author's Note:**

> Because I am terrified by what I watched last night...and have to write about it. Oh my gods...

God. God. God. God.

Prayer is to hard, is to much, is nothing more than the whimpering coming from the back of her throat. She rocks in time with her breaths, curled in a ball on the floor, lost in the semi-dark of the world under the blanket.

God. God. God. God.

There is blood in her cell, she can smell it, sense it, lurking outside the world under the blanket, and it mingles with the taste of her own blood in her mouth and she rocks, back and forth, and tries to not feel.

God. God. God. God.

She knows Karl was here, she knows Chief was here, but now there's only blood and the sound of her own whimpering to keep her company. Now there's only the blanket to protect her, and the world outside the blanket is pressing close and tight and horrible around her.

God. God. God. God.

If she concentrates she can feel her baby in her womb, and she curls around it, rocks it back and forth and prays without the benefit of words or clear thought. There are footsteps, and a presence above her and she-can't-breathe. Her hands dig into the blanket.

God. God. God. God.

Soft, small, female hands surprise her, pull her upright with surprising strength, and brace her back against the cot. She winces, because she doesn't want to be anywhere near this cot ever again. And then the soft, small, hands pull the blanket away from her face, and there's no longer a world inside the blanket to hide in.

God. God. God. God.

She is staring into the face of Specialist Cally, who has a tray of food and moonshine sitting beside her, who looks tired and worn and whose hands are shaking. Specialist Cally tells her, “ You're going to be ok now,” and after a long pause where Cally grits her teeth and stares at nothing, “ I'll make sure you're ok, till the Chief gets back.”

God. God. God. God.

Tears, bastard, traitorous, tears spring from her eyes, trail down her cheeks, mingle with her hair and the blanket. Cally leaves, shaking all over, and it is hours before she can bring herself to eat the food. It's hours before she finds the gun secreted away on the tray, examines the three shots in it with a numb indifference that is better than the hot fast fear that has been her only feeling.

God. God. God. God.

She cradles the gun close, tucks it down inside the blanket to wait. She has found her favorite hiding place.


End file.
